


Long Past Friendship

by kentucka



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (or a variation thereof), Anal Fingering, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Explicit Consent, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Says "Hmm", Jaskier | Dandelion Takes Care of Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Massage, Mentioned Roach (The Witcher), Service Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Subspace, Translation Available, Under-negotiated Kink, Vulnerable Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, also Geralt's demiromantic fight me, slight praise kink, so much appreciation for Geralt's physique, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:09:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23548939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kentucka/pseuds/kentucka
Summary: “Shit,” Jaskier swore, knowing what was going to happen even before he saw it: with all his weight back on them, Geralt’s legs buckled, folded. There was no grace to it, only hard impact against the wooden floorboards, and Jaskier winced. But Geralt didn’t stop there, didn’t simply sit and rest; no, his torso pitched forward, elbows bracing before his head could hit the floor, at least.“Geralt!” Jaskier was by his side again in an instant, kneeling next to him, hands fluttering helplessly. He didn’t know where to touch, where it was safe. It was dark, the room’s lamps not yet lit and only faint moonlight coming through the window. “Shit. This is bad.Realbad.” It took a lot to best a Witcher. Even more so the White Wolf. Venom, usually, if Geralt’s halting recounts of past fights were any believable source.“What do I do?”-or-Jaskier takes care of Geralt, and then'takes care'of him some more
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 153
Kudos: 1700
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Long Past Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to lovely [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin) for the fantastic beta and squee ♥
> 
> Set in a nebulous time between 1x02 Four Marks, and 1x04 Of Banquets, Bastards, and Burials.
> 
> [Russian translation available](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9334219)

Jaskier strummed the last chord when the tavern’s door burst open like punctuation to his song. Backlit by the two lanterns swinging in the snowstorm, flurries and biting cold air pushing their way inside around him, stood Geralt.

All eyes flew to the Witcher, all conversation stopped. The only sound was now the howling of the wind while Geralt paused in the doorway he almost filled with his bulk, grabbing the jambs on both sides. _Quite the dramatic entrance_ , Jaskier thought with some amusement.

That was, until Geralt stepped forward, stumbled, almost went down on a knee if he hadn’t managed to grab the back of a chair. Somebody rushed to close the door, and when the candlelight of the tavern’s chandelier finally stopped its nervous flickering, Jaskier realized that among the black slimy entrails covering the leather armor was also a fair share of Geralt’s own blood. The grin slipped off Jaskier’s face. He raced forward, shouldered himself under Geralt, who only grunted - pained, that was definitely a pained grunt, bitten-off and higher in pitch - at being straightened again.

Worried, Jaskier glanced at the other patrons. But thankfully they were still stunned, too surprised to react with their usual outrage to a mutant in their midst.

“Let’s get you looked after,” he murmured to Geralt, and got moving. He shuffled forward, and Geralt followed without any further sound. The old invincible facade rose up for the benefit of the human crowd, but Jaskier felt Geralt shaking with the effort, his weight hanging heavily on Jaskier’s shoulder.

He also stunk to the high heavens. Jaskier dug into his pockets for a couple of coins, pressing them into a maid’s hand as they passed her. “Rags and hot water,” he instructed her. She nodded numbly, and so Jaskier pulled Geralt upstairs to the room he’d rented while Geralt had Witcher business in town.

They reached their room and Jaskier turned to close the door behind them. But Geralt, ever impatient with his body’s limits, continued forward. “Shit,” Jaskier swore, knowing what was going to happen even before he saw it: with all his weight back on them, Geralt’s legs buckled, folded. There was no grace to it, only hard impact against the wooden floorboards, and Jaskier winced. But Geralt didn’t stop there, didn’t simply sit and rest; no, his torso pitched forward, elbows bracing before his head could hit the floor, at least.

“Geralt!” Jaskier was by his side again in an instant, kneeling next to him, hands fluttering helplessly. He didn’t know where to touch, where it was safe. It was dark, the room’s lamps not yet lit and only faint moonlight coming through the window. “Shit. This is bad. _Real_ bad.” It took a lot to best a Witcher. Even more so the White Wolf. Venom, usually, if Geralt’s halting recounts of past fights were any believable source.

“What do I do?” Jaskier implored, hoping against hope for a useful answer. He’d love to hear one of Geralt’s presumptuous commands right now. But all he got was another groan, a jerk. The white hair obscured Geralt’s face, on all fours as he was. Jaskier was no healer or mage; what could he, plain human, do? What would Geralt make him do?

Venom. Geralt would need an antidote! The Witcher kept many a potion in his bags, surely there was a remedy among them, or a boost for the mutant restorative powers.

A sudden knock at the door startled them both - Jaskier could read it in the rigidity of Geralt’s shoulders, caught defeated and defenseless - before the maid called out. “Sir, I brought you light and your lute.”

Jaskier glanced at his empty hands. Damn it, he must have dropped it the moment Geralt had blown in. He opened the door only a gap to accept the candle holder and his lute, shielding Geralt in his vulnerable position from overly curious eyes.

“The water will be ready soon, sir. I shall knock again,” the maid said, before bowing away.

With the next tasks set out straight, a measure of calm washed over Jaskier. He put the lute out of the way in a corner, then quickly lit the three oil lamps about the room. The candle holder he brought around, pulling along the bag in which small bottles and vials clinked. Geralt had moved, slightly more upright now on his hands, sitting back on his haunches. But he had started to shiver, uncontrollable spasms that had to be signs of the poison spreading.

Kneeling in front of Geralt, Jaskier hastily spread the potions out on the floor between them, holding the candle close to distinguish the many dark liquids. “Will any of these help?”

It took a moment, too many of Jaskier’s rabbiting heartbeats, but Geralt twitched. Shifted, but stalled with another grunt. Twitched once more. Until he was able to balance on one hand long enough to point to one of the vials.

“This one?” Jaskier immediately uncorked it.

Geralt's hair was still obscuring his face, matted down with monster and mutant blood. Carefully, Jaskier brushed it away. It revealed one eye, open but with a hardened gaze, steeling himself against-- everything. _Gods, Geralt must be hating this._ Dependence. Helplessness. Jaskier was not sure the Witcher healing alone would have allowed Geralt to survive this time.

He cupped his hand around Geralt's jaw, helped him lift his face, vial ready against Geralt's lips. "I've got you," Jaskier whispered, thinking, _I hope._

Geralt's eyes widened a fraction, their gold a dull gleam, almost human brown. Jaskier's heart ached for him, at the -dare he think it- _fear_ in them. It took Geralt a second before he tipped his head back all the way, let the elixir spill into his mouth. Jaskier wondered at it, at that hesitation, but as he watched the magic taking hold he noticed: the motion had made Geralt bare his throat. And that was how he froze, paralyzed, every muscle spasming and entirely at Jaskier’s mercy in a most subservient posture.

The enormity of his responsibility made Jaskier fumble the vial, barely catching and corking it again.

But none of his own anxiety mattered right now, he reminded himself. “You’re okay, Geralt,” he soothed, watching sweat bead on Geralt’s forehead and hoping it was a sign of the antidote running its course. “You’re safe.” _I will keep you safe._

Despite the rest of him being still as stone, Geralt’s eyes still expressed so much - or maybe that was Jaskier’s imagination. Maybe he _wanted so badly_ to see a sign of coherence. To assure Jaskier that this was normal, that Geralt would snap out of it any moment. But no, he wouldn’t _want_ to see this trepidation, warring with resignation. It had to be real - and oh, that broke Jaskier’s heart even more. “Sweet Melitele,” he muttered.

A loud knock prompted Jaskier up to his feet. He rushed to the door, receiving not a mere pitcher, but a whole bucket full of hot water. Jaskier might have gone a little overboard with his thanks to the maid, who also handed him a soap bar and a stack of rags that smelled freshly washed. Had Jaskier given her a gold coin by accident?

By the time he had set everything aside and dipped a cloth into the water, careful not to scald himself, he noticed Geralt’s fingers moving. “Oh good, good, you’re thawing,” he rambled over the relief swooping through his innards. “Can you grunt yet?”

“Hrm,” came the reply, short and harsh, a reprimand.

Jaskier grinned widely. “Look at you! Already back to your usual conversational levels. Good, well I guess I’ll be starting with getting that gunk off your face then, unless you have objections?”

“Hmmmh.”

Softer and longer, Jaskier took it as confirmation to continue. He brushed sticky strands of hair back from Geralt’s unnaturally upturned face, then carefully wiped the rag across his forehead. Some stains required scrubbing, the beard stubble the application of soap. By the time Jaskier was done with the larger planes of skin, he could actually see Geralt’s eyes following his every move. It made him feel rather… scrutinized.

“Close your eyes,” Jaskier asked.

Geralt jerked back, a hair’s breadth but this close Jaskier couldn’t help but notice. His eyes were narrowed, wary again. What on the Continent did he expect Jaskier to do to him?

“It’s just-- there’s-- dirt on your eyelids, and guts in your eyebrows and lashes,” Jaskier explained. And after a horrifying second of imagining past torturous experiences, of being strung up in pitch dark places and tormented, he added, “but it’s all right. It can wait. We can do this later when you’re--”

“Hrrhm,” it rumbled through Geralt, before he very pointedly squeezed his eyes shut. Like he needed to demonstrate to himself he could.

Jaskier took a slow, shuddering breath to steady his hands. He wrung out the rag and gently cupped Geralt’s (now clean) jaw again, providing an anchor. Geralt’s nostrils flared, probably taking in Jaskier’s scent, and the smell of the soap; other senses strained to make up for the loss of sight in an already exposed position. Jaskier could not fault the Witcher, whose reception by most humans was of rocks and steel and fists. He set the cloth against one of Geralt’s closed eyes, gently tracing the slope of lashes, the bump of an eyeball, the jut of bone. It took several passes. The brows he had to ruffle to get the dried monster blood between them to come off, before he smoothed them back down. He switched sides, repeating the process.

Finished, Jaskier hung the rag back over the edge of the bucket. Geralt’s eyes were open again, locked on Jaskier’s, gold already at its usual brightness. But the pupils were wider, and his breathing faster, Jaskier noted. “Are you all right? Is it getting better?”

“Hmmmh.” Geralt’s hands balled into fists against the floorboards, his unsupported head started to droop.

“I can start getting the armor off. You’re hurt underneath there somewhere, aren’t you?” Jaskier couldn’t help the reproach slipping into his tone, for the Witcher who never took enough precaution, preferably back-up, even if it was just Jaskier coming along to run for help if things went sideways, the way they apparently _had_ when facing down a whole freaking literal _nest_ of monsters that put any mother bear protecting her cubs to shame--

Jaskier had swallowed down the tirade, but Geralt tensed anyways, losing any hard-earned relaxation in his neck and shoulders. “Hrrhm.”

Jaskier was starting to interpret this particular grunt as Geralt’s unwilling affirmative. ‘I don’t like it, but you’re right,’ he imagined hearing in that grunt, or even ‘I know I fucked up.’

“Shit, I’m sorry. But yes, okay, armor’s coming off.” And so he busied himself with untying the pauldrons’ laces on the underside, opening the vembraces’ buckles on the inside of Geralt’s wrists. Piece by piece, the silver-studded leather armor piled up next to them on the floor.

As he worked, Jaskier kept up a stream of consciousness, quiet and mostly to himself. But it calmed Geralt as well, or so Jaskier liked to think, while his muscles loosened from the magic-induced stillness. “I just worry, you know? You’re not indestructible. But you did good, you survived. That’s all that matters. You managed to come back here, even lucid enough to tell me how to help. And if you’ve come back that means you’ve slayed all the monsters, the contract is fulfilled. We’ll collect your coin tomorrow. Another wild adventure that you will tell me nothing about. I’ll have to embellish the four hard facts I know, spin them into a tale worth telling, worthy of your bravery, so it will be sung into eternity and earn you the respect you deserve.”

Geralt didn’t reply, but a corner of his lips twitched.

Jaskier’s heart _soared._

He had just unbuckled the sword sheath, and started untying the lacing of the leather cuirass, when Geralt shook and trembled. With the jerky movements of a string puppet, he rightened himself into his typical meditative pose.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, hopeful of the progress and afraid it was a bad side-effect of the healing magic. “Geralt, is this normal?”

Geralt’s jaw worked, clenched muscles giving way slowly, before he could make words. “Yes.”

Well, _word,_ singular. What more was new?

“Okay, all right, let’s continue then. Just… raise your arm?” Jaskier hoisted up the back strap holding the scabbard, over Geralt’s head and slipped it down his left arm, which Geralt lifted obligingly. Similarly followed the cuirass.

“Shirt?” Jaskier asked, and indeed Geralt managed to pull it from his trousers and over his head alone, even if a seam or two might have protested. But it had been already ripped in multiple places and required mending in any case.

Half-naked, and yet beneath the black gooey gore it still took Jaskier a moment to find the source of the blood along his shoulder blade, on the far right side where the cuirass’ thick leather had ended. Jaskier pulled the bucket closer, handed one wet cloth to Geralt and took another for himself. “I’ll wash your back,” he explained.

Geralt threw him a harsh glare, but didn’t complain. He simply started scrubbing down his arms and chest.

Jaskier wasn’t sure what the look had been about. Was it a silent warning to not do anything stupid at the Witcher’s back? Or borne of the old pride, that Geralt shouldn’t need anyone, not even to clean wounds in places he had no way of reaching himself without learning to be a contortionist? Jaskier wondered, while he swiped off the loose chunks of dirt first, then rinsed and went back with soap for the sticky bits.

He watched those muscles ripple, as Geralt cleaned his front, and let himself enjoy the task just a tiny little bit. Along the spine, stretching over his ribs, dipping into his waist… Witcher physique was magical, even if it was riddled with scars that told tales Jaskier yearned to turn into songs and would never be permitted to. But then Jaskier concentrated again, swiping carefully along the scratch. He switched to a fresh rag, needing the wound to be as clean as possible, especially if it had been the entry point for the venom that had brought down the mighty White Wolf.

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier pulled out of his trance-like focus, to see a jar with salve be presented to him. The expression on Geralt’s half-turned face was a very loud _please_ and _thank you,_ a softness Jaskier only knew from observing him with Roach _._ So Jaskier dipped a finger in it, and applied it gently.

A deep intake of breath was all the reaction Geralt allowed himself, leading Jaskier to assume that it burned somewhat awful.

After a couple of moments, probably after the worst of the pain had died down, Geralt continued to undress further with halting movements. Boots, trousers. He’d managed to stay mostly clean on his lower half, except for a couple of spots on his waist that Jaskier helped get rid of.

“Now we just need to wash your hair.”

Geralt sighed, bent over the bucket, and simply dunked his whole head inside.

“Sure, that’s one way to do it,” Jaskier spluttered. He checked the temperature of the water but it had cooled off significantly in the meantime. He lathered up the soap between his fingers, then dug them into the hair at the back of Geralt’s neck as soon as he emerged, and went for more soap for the top of his scalp.

If the move surprised Geralt, he didn’t let on. He just kept in place, let Jaskier do as he pleased, and once his hands moved away, Geralt put his head back under water again. This time the bucket overflowed, and oh the innkeeper was going to chew them out for the mess they’d made of the room with monster guts and bathwater. “Last time they ever let a Witcher stay in these rooms,” Jaskier muttered to himself.

Once he came back up for air, Geralt pointed at the vials strewn about the floor again. “Vinegar,” he instructed.

With it being one of the few light-colored substances, Jaskier found the vial easily. It was a routine he had witnessed before, and so he knew to grab a tin mug and pour the vinegar, then handed it to Geralt who filled it up with some of the water, and dumped the mix over his hair.

Geralt squeezed the excess water from his hair and Jaskier grabbed a couple more rags, rubbing down Geralt’s head. Once he kneeled upright again, Jaskier let his fingers card through the strands of white hair, now ridiculously soft thanks to the rinse. Geralt simply let it happen, allowed the continued, unsolicited, intimate touch, an exact opposite to how he would avoid even the most casual contact on the open road.

Was it something he secretly enjoyed, but wouldn’t admit to? Did he just not want to betray any personal weaknesses in public? Had the fight and the poison drained his usual barriers?

Regardless, there was still something about Geralt, something subtle that nevertheless betrayed his discomfort to Jaskier’s trained eyes. A clench of the jaw, or a rigidity to the posture, Jaskier couldn’t say for sure, but he was absolutely certain that the stoic Witcher was in pain.

“Come on, let’s get you settled.” Jaskier put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder to coax him over to the bed, but the muscle there was hard as iron. And of course, that made sense. Between battling a monster and the side-effects of the antidote, they had to be cramping and over-exerted. Now this was something Jaskier would gladly help with. He put more force behind his shove. “Up, up you go.”

With much less grace then his usual fluid movements, Geralt did as he was told. Barely even grumbled, either. Maybe it was the outlook of a soft bed, or generally him being too tired to complain, but he rose and stepped over the armor and potions towards the bed.

“On your back, if you please,” Jaskier added.

That earned him a glance and a raised eyebrow, but again, Geralt simply followed the instructions and lay down on the straw mattress which was only marginally wider than his barrel chest. Jaskier grimaced. That did not bode well for his night; he might choose sleeping on the floor from the start rather than risk falling down in the middle of the night. And here he’d been hoping for a bit more comfort than their forest campsites.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled impatiently.

Realizing that he’d been staring at Geralt’s almost-naked form for an inappropriate amount of time, and how that might be misconstrued, Jaskier jumped into action. From one of the saddlebags, he retrieved his own satchel of prized possessions, amongst which he found his beloved chamomile-infused oil.

Geralt rolled his eyes at him. “Not that again.”

But Jaskier would not be deterred. “Don’t even pretend, Geralt. We both know that if you really disliked it that much, you’d just shove me off.”

“Hrrhm.”

Jaskier laughed, argument won. Kneeling next to the end of the bed, he poured a few drops of oil and warmed it between his hands, then carefully spread it over Geralt’s left foot, up to his ankle, over bridge and sole, and even between his toes, under Geralt’s watchful eyes.

“What are you doing?” asked Geralt in a low, suspicious growl. And yet, the foot remained where it was in Jaskier’s hands.

With a soft smile, Jaskier firmed his touch, letting his thumb slide along the instep, pressing harder and harder on each pass until Geralt kicked involuntarily. “It’s a massage, you uncultured oaf,” Jaskier answered finally, fondness taking the sting out of his words. “Muscles and tendons are manipulated until they loosen, granting relief from aches and regaining flexibility. While the pressure can be uncomfortable at times, most say that the end results are quite enjoyable and well worth a little pain.”

He punctuated his words by digging his finger into a particularly sensitive point below the ball of the foot. Geralt’s knee jerked reflexively, and Jaskier immediately let off the pressure.

“Only a little pain, mind you,” he added, and locked eyes with Geralt to stress the importance. “It is not supposed to actually hurt you.”

“I can take it,” Geralt insisted.

Jaskier shook his head fiercely. “Witcher mutations, ecetera ecetera. I know. But this is not a test of your tolerance. The whole point is to alleviate pain, not cause it.”

Since Geralt only stared back unblinking for a long moment, Jaskier sighed in defeat. He wouldn’t be able to rely on Geralt _telling_ him when it became too much, lest his Witcher pride be wounded. No, he would have to be careful and take his cues from automatic reactions, even if ruthlessly suppressed.

He broke the staring contest and focused back on the tendons at the heel, flowing up to the ankle joint, down the bridge and between the toes. He pushed as hard as he dared, especially in the places that typically hurt the most on people who spent their whole day running about. One time a toe twitched, another Geralt’s hand almost balled to a fist, and so Jaskier continued to firm and lighten his touch, until the muscles became pliable and the joints moved smoothly. Only then did Jaskier switch sides, and start over on the right foot.

Somewhere along the way, Jaskier had started humming an easy, peaceful melody, and old working song they’d been taught in Oxenfurt, and when he finished with the foot and let his hands test the give of the muscles along the shin by gliding upwards toward the knee, he noticed that Geralt’s eyes had closed. His breath had become deeper - but faster, not asleep - and his widened nostrils likely meant that he was still taking in the scents. Geralt had once heavily implied that he picked up on certain emotions, on _intent,_ but he’d never elaborated, and so all Jaskier could do was guess. Predators smelled fear, prey shied away from the anticipation of their hunters. Were Witcher senses even more discerning?

Working up and down the lower legs, Jaskier lifted them sometimes to massage the calves, walk or glide his fingers along them. At first Geralt’s jaw would clench, but soon he allowed the manhandling entirely. Each time Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat at the sheer _trust_ displayed by the person who still refused to call him friend.

Maybe they had long since blown past mere friendship.

 _Keep telling yourself that,_ Jaskier admonished himself.

Satisfied with the lower extremities, Jaskier purposely left one hand on Geralt’s knee as a point of contact while he retrieved some more of the oil. He tried to keep himself even-keeled just in case Geralt could smell the excitement pooling hot and low in his belly at the sight of those thick thighs, at the excuse to _touch_ them extensively, but honestly it was a hopeless cause. Jaskier could not count the number of times he’d been lost inside his head on their travels, staring at those thighs spread around Roach, firmly encased in supple leather.

Geralt frowned at the intermission, or maybe at the renewed smell of chamomile, not at all ( _dear Gods_ ) at Jaskier’s stirring arousal, and that was enough to get Jaskier back to the task at hand. He stroked up Geralt’s right thigh, ruffling hairs in the process, then smoothing them back down while pressing just a tad harder and-- oh, Jaskier had his work cut out for him. Past the skin, Geralt’s thighs were quite literally _unyielding._ Steel would be easier to mold. A bit stronger still, Jaskier pushed the pads of his thumbs into the connection between muscle and knee, drawing circles over and into the tendons, upwards into the strongest of the thigh muscles, pulling its strands apart and pinching them together, manipulating it in ways simple use never could. Geralt’s hands dug into the mattress, so Jaskier took off some of the pressure, thumbs massaging further up the muscle, fingers sliding along on the sides, brushing against the left thigh as he reached the hip. Jaskier very carefully did _not_ think about that, how close his hands were to-- to--

His thumbs slipped underneath Geralt’s undergarments, over another knot, and Geralt _jolted,_ breath punched out of him, up on his elbows, gold-ringed eyes open and wild. “Jaskier,” he said, voice rough, rougher than usual even.

So much confusion, almost panic Jaskier detected in that one word, that he could only shush Geralt like a startled horse. “It’s all right, Geralt. I’m sorry, I’ll be more gentle.” It was a wonder Geralt hadn’t flung him clear across the room.

To prove his words, Jaskier petted Geralt’s thighs again, with the barest of pressure behind the balls of his hands. Geralt’s wide chest still heaved, but he slowly sank down on the bed, ready to try again. Trust again.

“Fuck,” Jaskier muttered. And to Geralt, before he could hum questioningly, he added, “you’re so tense, I’m surprised you were able to move at all.”

He started at the knee again, Geralt’s left now, also working on the muscles at its sides, careful around the scar left by Renfri’s dagger. Jaskier worked softly, knuckles and balls of his hands rolling the lengths of the muscles, until Geralt had truly relaxed again. He added back pressure then, worked his way higher into the offended tendons - just as bad or even worse than Geralt’s right - and kept his eyes on Geralt’s face for any hint of the same discomfort.

And yes, there it was: furrowed brows, balled fists. Feeling his way forward, Jaskier spread his fingers, pressing deliberately into the tension he found under the edge of Geralt’s braes again. Mindful of every subtle reaction, Jaskier circled his fingers, rolling over a similar knot, but this time--

The breath shuddered out of Geralt, his head pushed back into the pillow. His jaw clenched and his knuckles were white, but his right leg turned, falling _open._ Allowing Jaskier better access to continue the torment.

All of a sudden, Jaskier’s heart beat double-time. He couldn’t tell what caused it more, the unadulterated lust ratcheting up his spine, or the swooping affection for the mutant-man who surrendered under Jaskier’s hands. He swallowed hard. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was cajoling Geralt’s muscles into release, to grant the Witcher restful sleep and renewed strength come morning.

His hands wandered down again, pressing and pushing the thick muscles into defeat, gradually stronger as he watched Geralt’s face smoothen, his fingers loosen around the linens. With flowing movements Jaskier switched sides again, rightening the leg from where it had fallen sideways and warming the muscles gently before going at them with purpose. Geralt stayed still throughout. At particularly nasty spots, his breath would hitch, or his abdominals would jump reflexively, but he seemed to have fully given himself over to Jaskier’s care, no longer wary of the meaning behind each touch.

Jaskier smiled to himself, pride warring in his chest with astonishment.

Once he was satisfied with the legs, steadfastly ignoring the slight tenting of the braes, Jaskier let his palms run up Geralt’s chest, fingers spread wide, putting just a bit of weight behind them to test the pectorals, the front of his shoulders. And then-- then-- all professionalism aside, he couldn’t stop himself from digging his thumbs a little into the muscles running on either side of the windpipe, up towards the ears, just to see what reaction he could elicit.

Geralt _whined_ , high in his throat, lifting his chin and baring more of his neck, and Jaskier almost answered in kind.

 _Fuck,_ Jaskier swore internally, with vehemence. _Fuck._

He had an inkling as to Geralt’s current state of mind. The quieting of thoughts, a waterfall’s white noise drowning out all worries. The peace that came from the absolute _certainty_ of being tended and protected.

It was heady to see that _he,_ weak, annoying little _Jaskier_ of all people had managed to put Geralt, the White Wolf, the strongest of all Witchers at ease enough to achieve it. _Screw friendship._

After so long, Jaskier’s knees hurt from kneeling next to the bed, but short of a Nilfgaardian invasion, he would not let anything stop him now. Petting over Geralt’s chest and arms, he pitched his voice low to ask, “Can you turn around for me, Geralt? Your back deserves the same attention.”

Geralt grumbled, maybe in acknowledgement; Jaskier did not recognize it as any of his usual non-verbal responses. His eyes opened but were hazy, not quite focusing on Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier propped him up and helped him turn over, hands never leaving Geralt’s skin, settling him gently on his front and immediately petting over the wide, scar-riddled expanse of shoulders and waist. “You’re doing so well, darling,” Jaskier praised, and watched happily how it caused Geralt to stretch and burrow further into the pillow, flaunting himself just a little. Such a small gesture, which Geralt never would have allowed himself under other circumstances.

The notion was sobering. It reminded Jaskier not to take advantage, because Geralt had had no idea what he was getting himself into. And he likely would regret much of what he did - or let Jaskier do - while in this state.

Pouring more oil, Jaskier went back to work: the muscles along Geralt’s spine, those branching off under the shoulder blades, the ones attaching shoulders and neck; each of them were attacked gently, stronger, forcefully, until the last knot had given way.

Geralt sighed, spreading his hands above his head and kneading into the pillow whenever Jaskier managed to find a particularly sensitive spot that felt mostly good. If he hit a place too hard, Geralt would hiss, no longer caring to keep in any sounds of discomfort now that his mind had been wiped blank of such concerns as machismo. The feedback made work so much easier, since Jaskier could not see Geralt’s face anymore.

There were more tells, however: A tight muscle in the dip of his spine, on which Geralt kept holding his breath, but also shivering, like it was both the best and worst feeling. A buck of his shoulders when Jaskier came too close to the fresh scratch that was already knitting itself back together.

Jaskier enjoyed the peace he was able to bring the Witcher, even as his own arms and legs were burning from overuse. It was a prize, being allowed this close to an unshielded back, and an achievement to have him so malleable. Oh, here were so many things that Geralt obviously enjoyed and never permitted himself, for reasons Jaskier could only guess at.

Geralt was tolerating them now. Letting Jaskier show him, guide him. Or Jaskier was just reading too much into all of it and Geralt just knew how to have a good time when it poked him in the back. Whichever, Jaskier rose again a little further to test another theory. His fingers ran up Geralt’s nape and up his skull, brushing the damp silver strands away. Once the back of Geralt’s neck was bare, he covered it with both palms, fingers reaching down on either side: to the hinges of his jaw at the top, and over muscle strands joining the shoulder at the bottom. To be held there was to be _owned;_ Geralt’s breath hitched, another whine smothered in the pillow, and so Jaskier quickly started pulling on the deep tissue. _Sweet Melitele,_ why had he started this? It was misery - for himself! 

But he was not done yet, not for a while. There was still the hip and buttocks to tend to, poorly treated on long horseback rides. While Geralt ensured Roach was clean and dry and her back never so much as twinged, he never looked out similarly for himself.

He pulled his fingers upwards, pressed and circled them on the base of Geralt’s skull, the very top of his spinal and neck muscles connecting there, then worked his way the entire length of Geralt’s back down one more time. Jaskier made sure to gift Geralt another pass over the good/bad spot, just to see the explosive exhale that shook Geralt’s rib cage. Then he moved further down, this time not stopping for modesty. Spine muscles extended and connected all the way down into the meat of the arse, and that was where he dug his thumbs in until Geralt _whimpered._ A circular motion here caused him to go goose-skinned to his neck, and so Jaskier kept at it, back and forth, sideways to the wider part of the hip.

When the tendons were back to their most flexible selves, Jaskier ran a brief caress up to his shoulders and back down. “You’re doing amazing, darling,” Jaskier whispered against his ear.

Geralt panted.

Jaskier set his hands on the back of each wide thigh with yet another few drops of oil, spreading it well. He knuckled in deep almost immediately, up their lengths and under the edge of braes, into the crease of buttocks. Then he used his fingers again, tackling the thick inner sides, slipping up- up- up--

Geralt moaned, hips grinding down against the mattress before rising again, raising them, following Jaskier’s hands as he took them back because he hadn’t meant for _that_ to happen. Not quite.

Okay maybe, maybe he had wanted that _a little bit_ , because damn it Geralt deserved to feel good, and call him shallow but Jaskier found him handsome. Still… no taking advantage, right?

He wasn’t about to leave Geralt _hanging_ either, though.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked. He scooted towards the head of the bed, getting closer, but keeping a hand on Geralt’s waist the entire time to ground him. “Geralt, are you with me? If you want something, I’m sorry but I’ll need you just a little more lucid, love.”

Geralt’s head turned in the pillow, face emerging from it, and Jaskier gently brushed back the mess of hair until he could actually see Geralt’s eyes. They were half-lidded, and his breath puffed out of his mouth. Disheveled in the best ways. “Jas--”

Jaskier beamed at him. “I’m here, gorgeous. Not going anywhere,” he promised.

“Please,” he choked out, hips grinding again, Jaskier’s hand in the dip of his back following the motion along.

 _Gods give me strength,_ Jaskier thought. This was beyond anything he’d ever even allowed himself to dream. “Anything you want, darling, you just have to ask. But I do need to hear you say it. I need you to be sure.”

One of Geralt’s hands moved to push at his own braes, slip them down to his thighs. “More, please-- your hands--”

Jaskier squeezed his own erection through his trousers, almost overheating in all his street clothes. “You’ll have them, love, but where do you want them?” He let his hand wander over Geralt’s hip to his front, brush low over his stomach, easily reached with the way Geralt was raising his behind in offering. Jaskier turned his hand, catching Geralt’s hard cock in a loose fist. “Here?”

Watching Geralt’s eyes screw tight in pleasure, a moan pressing through gritted teeth, must have been the best thing Jaskier had and would ever see. But then Geralt shook his head, shook all over, a pink tinge to his cheeks, and widened his knees as far as the trapped braies let him.

Ohhh-- Either Jaskier had just experienced a dry orgasm, or he had heart palpitations.

He let go of Geralt’s cock, traced his hand back up onto Geralt’s back, and from there followed the dip of the spine down between those sinfully round arsecheeks, until his fingers brushed the puckered muscle. Geralt’s breath stuttered.

“Just to be clear: You want my fingers in here?”

Again, Geralt whined, so delightfully desperate and demanding. “Jas-- yes, Jaskier--”

Jaskier saw no need to make Geralt beg again. He rubbed his oily middle finger over the sphincter, letting it catch, before he breached the muscle and pushed in to the first knuckle.

“Ah!” Geralt rose onto his elbows, pushing back against Jaskier’s hand, head hanging low.

In order to sooth him and re-establish their skin contact, Jaskier set his free hand on Geralt’s shoulder, stroking down to his hip, over and over. “Gorgeous, so gorgeous,” Jaskier praised while he let his finger penetrate deeper. “You’re a present by the Goddess herself, darling.” Just to hear Geralt moan again, the words shivering through him.

Soon, Jaskier followed the unspoken request of rocking hips to add a second finger, but slowly, letting Geralt feel the stretch of it. Then he started stroking the soft walls with a goal in mind, searching.

With his back bowed, Geralt was panting loudly, growling almost constantly, his erection hanging heavy under him but ignored. If he wanted to come on Jaskier’s fingers, Jaskier was all too happy to grant him his wish. He tapped a third finger against Geralt’s ass, received an even louder moan in response, and so he watched it go in, swallowed up eagerly by Geralt’s body.

“Oh, you beautiful beast.” Jaskier let his roving hand create pressure again, seeking out the spots he’d found before in the dip of Geralt’s spine, on the top of his arsecheeks. And then he curled his fingers inside, just slightly, timing it with Geralt’s writhing, laughing to himself when Geralt howled his pleasure. “White Wolf, all right.”

“Hrm!” The complaint held none of its predecessor’s intimidation, it was pitiful in comparison really.

Nevertheless, Jaskier set his lips against the base of Geralt’s spine, kissing it in apology. His fingers sped up their metronome rhythm, like the second verse of an increasingly raucous song, louder and faster-- Jaskier going faster and Geralt becoming louder. Every so often, he punctuated it by intermittent, well-aimed pushes into Geralt’s sweet spot, causing him to shake apart, and he hoped to the heavens that he, simple human bard, would be able to put the Witcher back together again.

That Geralt would let him.

“You’re right there,” Jaskier whispered against his skin. “I can feel it. It’s all right, I’ve got you. Let yourself go,” he encouraged Geralt, who was holding back for some reason. It had been so long already, and yet no time at all since they had really started. “What do you need?”

At this, Geralt reached out, hand grabbing back at Jaskier until he caught it and their fingers laced together. Then it didn’t take much more, another chorus of Jaskier’s fingers against Geralt’s insides, a kiss on Geralt’s hip, and he came with a punched-out breath, all those pliant muscles locking up again for a long moment. He looked delicious, his walls down or maybe just Jaskier well within them, and _everything_ for Jaskier to see. Jaskier drank it up like a man parched, provisions for long roads when Geralt would play at being disaffected again, and wished they could stay right here forever.

Finally, Geralt collapsed, knees and elbow sliding out under him, uncaring of or unable to avoid the wet spot.

Carefully, Jaskier let his fingers slip from Geralt’s body, and hurried to wash them with the remainder of the soap bar and the cold water in the bucket. He briefly looked down, at his neglected cock clearly outlined in his trousers, but only shrugged to himself. Not important right now. Armed with Geralt’s water flask and a couple of dry rags, he came back to the bed.

The flask he put on the floor within Geralt’s reach. Then he nudged Geralt, still far off and mostly unresponsive, onto his side, just enough to pull up his braes and put the rags over the worst of the wet spot, and let him roll onto it again. 

A scratchy wool blanket had been supplied with the room, sitting on the credence table next to the standard pitcher of cold water and wash basin. But they had also brought their bedrolls in, and from there Jaskier pulled his own, softer-woven cotton blanket, and threw it over Geralt’s sprawling back.

Should he sleep on the floor? The bed really would be a tight fit. But after what Geralt had just experienced, probably for the first time and without forewarning, close contact usually was the best way to stave off a depressive aftermath. In truth, the decision had already been made for him, and Jaskier quickly divested himself of his outerwear and squeezed in behind Geralt, crawling under a corner of the cotton cloth and spreading the wool blanket on top.

As he snuggled up close, Geralt grumbled what sounded like Jaskier’s name. Jaskier only pushed a leg between Geralt’s, threw an arm over his middle, and pressed lips to the back of Geralt’s neck. “Sleep now, mighty Witcher,” he murmured. “We’ll talk all about it in the morning.”

But Geralt turned around, slow and sleepily, curling into Jaskier’s side. Long hair in his face, he blindly searched for Jaskier, slotting their lips together and--

_Oh._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Long Past Friendship - kentucka](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28801083) by [LenaReads (LenaLawlipop)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LenaLawlipop/pseuds/LenaReads)




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